


The Curving East

by glim



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-18
Updated: 2010-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-08 02:22:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glim/pseuds/glim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin's eyes hold light and wonder as magic unfurls between them; he raises one hand, palm up, and both magic and wonder flourish, then curl about the angles of his body, as if Merlin himself is unfolding, bursting into life and being born anew, and around them both Arthur can feel all Albion reveal itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Curving East

Arthur wakes with a gasp, cold air ice-sharp in his lungs, and searches in the dark for something – the edge of a blanket, a brush of warm skin, the flutter of breath against his neck. The quiet and darkness press in on all sides and simultaneously stretch out in all directions, making him want to either bury himself in the blankets or fling them from his body and pull in another lungful of icy air. Arthur takes in a breath, this one slower, calmer, and shifts closer to the body next to his. Their presence barely warms the ground beneath them and there's no place for fire here, but Arthur can sense what little heat there is, the product of shared breath and blood-warmed skin, more intimate than anything he's shared with a lover.

His fingers, numb with sleep and the winter night, creep out from under the pile of worn, roughly woven blankets and settle on Merlin's leg. He keeps vigil while Arthur sleeps, as he's done nearly every night since they left home, and sleeps himself while Arthur meets with his guard. Snatched hours for the both of them. The early mornings and late evenings when they are sure they're as safe as they can be, when the army can spare a cohort to guard Arthur's tent, they sleep together, bodies curled into each other, habitual and protective.

"I dreamt of Camelot." His words seem to hang in the cold air and Arthur imagines soft cloud puffs of breath, and remembers the winter forest where he used to hunt, how his breath hung silent and frozen for a half-second against the grey sky.

The memory fades with the bitter realization that the ice still glints off the evergreen boughs and the deer still dart between safe spaces, though the crimson blood that melts through trampled snow is that of men. The army passed through, once, after the castle was besieged, and Arthur has to close his eyes and clench his fists to stop the images from rushing over him again.

He thinks, instead, of the warm fire and the flickering light it cast over his chamber walls; of Merlin, laughing as Gwen measured him for more formal clothes that he insisted he had no need for and Arthur insisted that he did; he thinks of the flush that wine brought to his own senses, how he used to feel it right down to his fingertips.

He remembers how, once upon a time, he was the crown prince and heir apparent to the throne of Camelot.

"Then it's time to go back." Merlin's hand settles over his with incredible and unexpected warmth, and his fingers lace themselves with Arthur's.

Arthur's learned many things in the past year: how to sleep on the cold, hard ground, how to watch blood run over snow and through river water, how to subsist on mere determination, how, at times, the illusion of courage is one he must project. He's learned to listen to Merlin when his voice goes quiet, low, and serious, and to value the loyalty of a friend who will watch while he sleeps.

He's learned that there is something inside Merlin, slowly unfolding, that will wrap around them both, an all-encompassing, strange, stunning, frightening thing that, in some way Arthur fears he may never truly understand, will be their salvation.

"We'll leave in the morning." Arthur keeps his hand clasped inside Merlin's until sunrise.

*

They stop a couple hours' march away from Camelot, close enough to the besieged castle that the enemy camps will be alerted of their presence soon.

"Here." Merlin nods. He nudges his horse closer to the tree line and pauses before entering the forest. "Tell your men to wait for you."

"Are you serious? You do realize we are at war, Merlin."

Merlin just shrugs and leads the way into the forest. The wind catches the heavy, blue cloth of his cloak and Merlin glances over his shoulder to give Arthur a coaxing grin. "You're with me. You know you'll be fine. C'mon, Arthur."

"You had better be right." Arthur dismisses his guard and their captain to follow Merlin into the cool, dark canopy of trees and branches. Merlin's right – Arthur knows him well enough to follow his lead without fear.

After a few minutes of quiet riding, the snow seems to slide off the bare branches and into the earth, revealing new leaves above them and tender, fresh grass beneath their horses' hooves. The air warms and carries with it the scent of greenery and clean water, so much like those springtime mornings after the winter has cleared that Arthur hopes that he's dreaming again, but only because he has no time to get caught in the loop of memory and longing.

Then Merlin turns to him, smiling over his shoulder in that endearing, awkward manner that Arthur's seen in banquet halls and on battle grounds. They let their horses stay where there is grass and fresh water and continue their way through the sudden, springtime landscape. The trees, the grass, the tiny white flowers that bloom where the sunlight falls, the flip of Merlin's cloak along the winding breeze: Arthur catalogs it all, saves it alongside the other good places he keeps inside him.

"Where are we?"

"Someplace safe. You'll always be safe here, Arthur." The forest clears, parts to reveal a lake, and Merlin's eyes widen as he gazes across it. Arthur's seen that smile, yes, and he's seen Merlin laugh and, sometimes, he's seen moments of content flitter over Merlin's features this past year. But the wonder he held inside him and shared so easily those first few years in Camelot has been painfully absent and even more painfully missed.

Arthur rests his hand on Merlin's shoulder and tightens his grip to keep Merlin from moving away; no, to keep himself from moving away or from telling himself that he misses the way Merlin's eyes would soften and his mouth part with a soundless gasp at the sight of some small marvel.

"Merlin."

"I just, I want you know, before anything else happens, that I know you'll be a great king. You belong to Camelot, and Camelot to Albion, and it's going to be _brilliant_."

"And you know this because?" It's not that Arthur doesn't believe Merlin. He does, in a manner he can't begin to articulate, and that kind of wordless faith and knowledge intimidates him.

"Because I will make it happen."

Arthur's hand lingers on his shoulder. Merlin turns and smiles once more. The world transforms around them into a place where the finest filaments of light and air spangle together, as fine as thin-spun silver and gold.

Arthur recognizes the sensation immediately with an awareness that is as deep as blood, bone, and breath inside him; he recognizes himself in the thrum that is more than his own heartbeat, but the beat of life and magic in the air, the ground, the water around him, the flame that spreads beneath his skin and glows gold and great in Merlin's eyes.

The woman who offers him the sword is as pale as marble and as dazzling as the water she rises from; the blade hums when Arthur's fingers close around the pommel. He draws it, and it's like drawing iron through stone, until the stone melts into water and the water turns to mist, and then the blade sings through the air on a clear note that resounds through earth, water, and sky.

Merlin's eyes hold light and wonder as magic unfurls between them; he raises one hand, palm up, and both magic and wonder flourish, then curl about the angles of his body, as if Merlin himself is unfolding, bursting into life and being born anew, and around them both Arthur can feel all Albion reveal itself.

*

That day, they lie together for the first time. Arthur touches the edge of Merlin's jaw, traces a line down the length of his neck, and lets himself think, for a moment, that the rise of Merlin's collarbones and the slope of his thin shoulders are delicate.

"Why today?" Merlin leans up on his elbows and tips his head back to let Arthur lick inside the hollow of one collarbone. "Not that I'm complaining, but if you're worried..."

"No. I'm not. If you tell me all will be well, then I believe you." Worry, or nervous anticipation, or even impulsive lust at the prospect of death would have been an easy excuse. But Arthur knows Merlin too well now to lie about such things.

He smooths the flat of his palm down Merlin's chest to rest over his heart. Merlin smiles, suddenly, fleetingly shy, and ducks his head down and away from Arthur. The bashfulness fades; yet, for a few more seconds, Merlin looks more boyish than he has in years, the angles of his face and the curve of his mouth softening with Arthur's gentle, constant touch.

Their bodies are warm and tangled on the yielding grass, their clothes a pile at Arthur's feet that still holds the heat of their skin, and his armor and the sword, the one Merlin appeared to have summoned for Arthur from the very elements themselves, rests safe and sure not even six paces away from them.

Arthur wants to say that he has seen the prospect of a new age unravel from the palm of Merlin's hand; that he's seen the start of his reign here at Avalon Lake in the glint of a sword-blade; that he's seen Albion united and that the duty and honor of that task will not be his alone; that the next to last puzzle piece between them has finally slotted in place and he has learned the secret that remained unspoken between the two of them all these years. And he wants to say that none of it matters, because here, he is just Arthur of Camelot, a man, a friend to Merlin of Ealdor, and they lie in the quiet, lush forest, untouched by time or expectation, and he would save this moment inside his breast forever. Instead, he closes his eyes and bends forward to press his lips to Merlin's chest, and murmurs, "Because now I know."

"Yes." Merlin's fingers sift through Arthur's hair to stroke behind his ear.

Arthur nudges his head against the stroking and gives Merlin his own hesitant smile. They've lost so many moments, and the ones remaining rush upon them without remorse.

Neither of them have been young for years now, and Arthur will never know what it would've been like to pull the boy who'd been his servant to his chest, to bury his face in the scent of sunshine, fresh straw, and sweat to breathe Merlin in.

But he'll take this last moment where they wait at the periphery of the changing world and he'll take all their memories of lost moments, press them together to distill one sweet, secret afternoon for them both. He'll map his mouth over Merlin's chest and stomach, record the sound of his breath and the catch of his voice when he says "Arthur" and "_Arthur_" like his lips have never formed the word before.

Beneath him, Merlin is unfolded, unfolding with each touch and each press of lips to his skin; he wraps himself around Arthur, discovering secrets and pleasures that had to stay hidden away during this long, cold year.

*

"What was your dream about?"

They stand at the entrance to the winter forest and the sun climbs slow and steady up the curving eastern sky. In the distance, the towers of Camelot are just visible, as tall and as bright as they were in Arthur's youth. It's a trick of the light and a blessing that from this vantage point Arthur cannot see his castle, his home, besieged.

Arthur squints instead of looking away when the sun glances over his face and into his eyes. The world is preternaturally quiet around them, though Arthur can feel the whisper of magic against his skin and the rumble of the dragon's breath as he wakes from his long sleep beneath Camelot.

"I dreamt of Guinevere, and that dear, secret look you and she would often share as you served at table, and of how, one day, she looked at me without reserve.

"And of my father, and how he smiled during that final banquet, before the messenger arrived in the hall, right before that extraordinary, awful moment when he knew that Camelot was at war.

"And of Morgana, and the way she knew me like nobody else did, how she could use words as well as she could a sword, without fear or uncertainty, and how her eyes saw more than she could tell.

"And I dreamt of you and me, and how we walked across the courtyard the afternoon before the banquet, the sun warm on the back of my neck, and the brush of you hand against mine."

Merlin's hand brushes against Arthur's again, the touch brief and familiar, before Merlin raises it. The air around them stills, shimmers in the crystal clear winter sunlight, and Arthur tightens his own hand around the pommel of his sword. He turns to Merlin, watches for Merlin's smile, wills the moment to last.

Suddenly, the clarion call of a trumpet sounds in the distance and red banners snap from the turrets of Camelot. Ahead of them, the army stirs and their standards unfurl, bright scarlet and gold, unfrayed, the Pendragon rampant.

Arthur inhales, the winter air sharp and cold in his chest, and unsheathes his sword. The noontime sun catches the blade and the magic inherent in the weapon, in Arthur's blood and in Merlin's very being, sings through the air.

"I dreamt of Camelot."

 

* * *

  
And here face down beneath the sun  
And here upon earth's noonward height  
To feel the always coming on  
The always rising of the night:

To feel creep up the curving east  
The earthy chill of dusk and slow  
Upon those under lands the vast  
And ever climbing shadow grow

  
Archibald MacLeish, "You, Andrew Marvell"  



End file.
